


The Adventure Of The Blanched Soldier (1903)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [214]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Army, Butt Plugs, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, False Identity, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Photography
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 15:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11877924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The truth, they say, is black and white – but in this case, it was the shades between that led to an attempted cover-up which Sherlock, despite a frankly terrible client, managed to expose.





	The Adventure Of The Blanched Soldier (1903)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aely/gifts).



There was a certain irony in the fact that our next case in nineteen hundred and three began on the day that it did, October the eleventh. I had been reading in the _"Times"_ about the establishment of the Women’s Social and Political Union, apparently a splinter group from the suffragist movement which had been pushing for equal rights for women for decades now. This new body promised – or threatened – ‘deeds, not words’, and I was concerned that the general movement, which I tacitly supported, might be set back by such un-English aggression. Time would indeed prove me right (a blue-eyed someone is rolling their eyes at me, I know!); the new tactics would only serve to harden opposition against extending the franchise, and it would be the essential part played by the fairer sex in the Great War which would result in women eventually obtaining the vote. Poor old Simon de Montfort must have been spinning in is grave!

I was about to see such aggression in the New Woman first-hand, for that morning we had an unexpected visitor. Miss Holston Beauregard was about thirty, dressed in what was almost a manly-like set of clothes, and clearly thought a great deal of herself. She was also American, and like rather too many of her countryfolk, had yet to learn the art of keeping her voice down.

“Harrumph!” she said, looking disapprovingly first at Sherlock and then at me. “Well, I have no time for men in general, but I suppose that I have seen worse. You will do.”

I winced as I thought back to the terrible Madam Sophia-Justina Warrier, whose overbearing arrogance had ultimately been her downfall. At least this female's voice was marginally less annoying, and she had not even got round to simpering at Sherlock yet.

“How may we be of service, madam?” my friend asked politely.

“Not to me”, she said firmly, and I bit back a smile. My friend's famous charms would not work on this harridan, of that I was sure. “My dear friend Elizabeth wants to find a man.”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “A particular gentleman, or does she have more exacting requirements?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, which was a mistake on her part. Sherlock could out-stare a python. She blinked.

“Harrumph!” she said again, looking curiously at him. “Yes, I think you might do very well.”

I almost moved from my place when I saw the predatory look on her face, but Sherlock shook his head at her. Even though she was not looking in my direction, I glared evilly at her.

“The case, madam”, Sherlock pressed. She sighed, sounding almost disappointed.

“Elizabeth has conceived some frankly idiotic notion that she is in love with a soldier, based on – well, of all things, a _photograph!_ ” she said scornfully. “There is no reasoning with someone when that happens, and believe me, I have _tried!_ But she will _not_ be told! I need you to find the soldier in question so that she can see what he is like, and if he is good enough for her.”

“What information do you have on him?” Sherlock asked.

“Very little”, she frowned. “It is all incredibly vexing. Elizabeth works in a bakery next door to a photographic studio, where they display some of their work in their window. Recently they put up this picture of four soldiers in uniform, and she told me that she thinks one of them is – I cannot believe she actually uttered that awful word – _‘dreamy'!_ ”

I turned away to hide my smile. Miss Beauregard sounded like her friend had just confessed to a massacre of puppies!

“You have not made any efforts to find the man yourself?” Sherlock asked. She snorted.

“Elizabeth went into the shop and turned on the waterworks for the owner”, she said scornfully. “Honestly, the things that some men will do just because a woman cries! He told her that the gentleman who paid for the photo was one Lieutenant Jeremy Anderson, the son of Colonel Theobald Anderson. He is not the one, by the way; the object of her affections is the man standing around uselessly at the back.”

“And you have since approached Lieutenant Anderson?” Sherlock asked.

“I did”, she said. “Elizabeth was terrified when I suggested it, but I believe in doing things, not daydreaming about them. Deeds, not words, as they say in the paper today. He told me that the man was a fellow lieutenant who had died of an illness two months ago, not long after the picture was taken.”

Sherlock looked at her in surprise.

“Then why are you here, madam?” he asked.

“Because I am not going to be taken for a fool, Mr. Holmes!” our visitor said sharply. “Back home in the great state of Maine, I am a school-teacher, and I have been lied to by the best. I have had boys who have stared at me unblinking and denied hitting someone, then not even had the decency to blush when I told them that I had seen them do it! That man was hiding something, and I want Elizabeth to know the truth. I told her what the young idiot said, but I also made it quite clear that I did not believe a word of it.”

“You do understand that my investigations may only serve to confirm the death”, Sherlock pointed out.

“They will not”, she said with an absolute certainty. “Anyway, I must go now. My card. You will inform me of your progress in the case.”

She nodded to us, and swept from the room. I stared after her.

“We should have sent her to Africa, and set her loose on the Boers”, I said. 

“ _Jus in bello_ ”, Sherlock reminded me. “There are rules about the weapons one can unleash on one’s fellow humans, even in warfare! But that lady is most definitely a force to be reckoned with. I wonder if she is right?”

+~+~+

If Miss Holston Beauregard had made a less than favourable impression, then the same could not be said of her friend, upon whom we waited the following day. Miss Elizabeth Woodhouse was clearly mortified when she understood why we were there, and it took all of Sherlock's persuasive abilities to calm her down.

“I do wish Bo had not called you in”, she said apologetically. “She is such a force of nature when she gets an idea into her head. Though I shall miss her when she returns to the United States in the New Year.”

I silently felt sorry for all Americans, but then, they had unleashed that harridan on our country in the first place. Sherlock looked at me knowingly.

“She did not believe Lieutenant Anderson when he told her that his friend had died”, he said. “May I venture to ask _your_ opinion on the subject, Miss Woodhouse?”

She sighed.

“I know that I am being silly and melodramatic”, she said, “but the moment that I saw that photograph, I wanted to know more of that poor man. He looked so handsome and so…. I know it is odd to say, but so _sad_. As if the cares of the world were on his shoulders.”

I honestly feared that she was about to start crying. We seemed to have gone from one end of the female spectrum to the other. 

“Is the photograph still on display in the window?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head.

“Shortly after I spoke to the shop-owner, it was removed”, she said sadly. “I presume that after Bo spoke to Lieutenant Anderson, he ordered it to be taken down.”

Sherlock nodded, and seemed to think for some little time.

“I am going to investigate this case, Miss Woodhouse”, he said eventually. “Something about it feels wrong, and I would like to know the truth, to satisfy my own curiosity. I shall of course keep both you and Miss Beauregard fully informed of any developments, but in all fairness I must warn you, as I warned her, that it may be that Lieutenant Anderson was indeed speaking the truth when he said that his friend had died.”

“I do not think that he was”, she said quietly, “but I would have to admit, that may just be wishful thinking on my part. Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

And I was just thinking what a nice lady she was when, on our way out, I caught her simpering at him! Honestly!

+~+~+

“We are going to need to call in the services of Bacchus on this”, Sherlock said once we were in the cab headed back to Baker Street. “I need to see that photograph in order to make any progress, and I am sure that Lieutenant Anderson would not co-operate if approached.”

“How are you going to get him to show you the photograph, then?” I asked.

He smiled.

“I know a little about this wonderful new technology”, he said. “The shop owner may have handed his customer the photograph, but he will retain the negative in case the lieutenant required any further prints. We shall just have to persuade him to part with it.”

“And you think that the lou.... your brother can persuade him?” I asked dubiously.

“I suspect that he will enjoy playing the part of the government agent who needs that image for unspecified reasons, and telling the shop owner that divulging his visit would have decidedly unpleasant consequences!” Sherlock grinned.

I suspected that he was right.

+~+~+

Two days later, Sherlock received a photograph in the post, along with a note from his brother. He shook his head when he read it.

“Apparently Bacchus chose to have some of his men break into the shop to obtain the negative, then break back in the next night to replace it”, he said. “I suppose that the idea of using more conventional means did not occur to him!”

I looked at the photograph that was the centre of our case. It showed four men in lieutenants' uniforms, one sat in the very centre, two others either side of him, and a fourth stood just behind the others, looking almost apologetic at being there. That, presumably, was the object of Miss Elizabeth Woodhouse's affections. Frankly he was not much to look; about twenty-five to thirty, and possibly with some foreign ancestry, judging from his face.

“They are just four men in the King's army”, I said. “It does not show much.”

Sherlock grinned.

“On the contrary”, he said. “It shows rather a lot.”

“I do not see it”, I complained.

“Then I would draw your attention to two things”, he said. “The unusual pallor on the fourth man's face, and his nose.”

“What about his nose?” I asked, exasperatedly.

“I think a visit to the shop owner is called for”, Sherlock said. “I will need your medical expertise to back me up. I may have to stretch the truth just a little.”

+~+~+

The shop in question was Watkin & Sons, Professional Photographers. Inside, we were met by a bearded fellow of about forty-five years of age, who introduced himself as the owner, Mr. Edward Watkin. 

“I think that you would rather we have the conversation that we are about to undertake in private”, Sherlock said. “It is not something that I believe you would wish one of your valued customers to walk in on.”

The man looked understandably nervous, but after exchanging a few words with his employee, he guided us out to a small office in the back. Once we were all seated, Sherlock began.

“I wish you to understand the utter seriousness of this conversation, Mr. Watkin”, he said severely. “I am representing the British government in a most important and delicate matter, and we may be dealing with the very _gravest_ of consequences. Not just the ruination of your business, but death and panic on a large scale.”

The man was already beginning to sweat.

“I do not understand”, he said.

“It concerns a photograph that you took some two to three months ago”, Sherlock said. “I really hope that you can remember it, for your own sake. It was commissioned by a Lieutenant Jeremy Anderson, and featured himself and three of his fellow officers.”

The man frowned.

“This is not about that awful woman who went to see him, is it?” he asked. “Because if it is.....”

“This is about your certain ruination if you keep interrupting me!” Sherlock snapped, which was quite unlike him. “My time is my own, and I am putting myself at risk by coming here. Now listen!”

The man shrank back before his anger. Sherlock was terrifying when roused, as I (and my backside) well full knew. The photographer really could have invested in some padded seats.

“This does concern the fourth soldier in that photograph, though not for any good reason”, Sherlock said. “And not to do with that dratted American female, whose involvement in the case is a complication we could well have done without. The sooner she goes back to her homeland, the better, as far as I am concerned. Now, as a photographer, you would have had to stand close to these people to put them into the correct positions before taking the photograph. When you took this particular picture, did you notice anything unusual about the fourth soldier?”

The photographer hesitated.

“A blanched face, perhaps?” Sherlock prompted.

“Yes, he was”, the man said. “And he seemed very nervous. He did not like me standing close to him.”

Sherlock sighed.

“That is unsurprising”, he said. “I only wish that we had been able to contact Lieutenant Anderson directly, but for obvious reasons we cannot.”

“Why not?” the photographer asked.

Sherlock leant forward.

“Mr. Watkin”, he said gravely, “there is a very strong probability that when he visited your shop that day, the fourth man was in the early stages of a deadly disease that he had contracted from the regiment's time in India. It has an unusually long gestation period – about three months, is that not right doctor?”

He looked at me for support.

“Indeed”, I said. “Three months is the norm.”

“And then, only then, it becomes highly infectious”, Sherlock said. “In terms of fatalities, it is not far behind the fabled Black Death. Fortunately it only tends to spread to others once that period is elapsed.” He looked around the office pointedly before adding ominously, “most of the time.”

The photographer was clearly close to a panic attack.

“You are saying that my shop – I – could be infected?” he gasped.

“There is a treatment”, Sherlock said, “but there is also a problem. Like the Black Death, this disease has two forms, in this case a severe one and a mild one. The application of the wrong treatment to a person could kill them. We desperately need to track down this man and find out which strain he has.”

“But what about me?” the photographer demanded.

“Once we ascertain the illness, we can decide upon the treatment”, Sherlock said. “If it is the mild strain, then there is no risk of contagion; indeed, that manifests itself as little more than a common cold, sometimes with a sore throat. But a blanched face like you describe.... that does not bode well.”

“I shall fetch my records at once!” the photographer said, almost falling out of his chair in his eagerness to help. He all but ran from the room.

I looked at Sherlock sharply.

“Infectious disease?” I asked. “What if he talks?”

“And tell everyone that they could catch something horrible by coming into his shop?” Sherlock asked, quirking an eyebrow at me. “It would be the death of his business. No, he will not talk.”

Devious bastard!

+~+~+

Apart from Lieutenant Anderson, the others in the picture turned out to be Lieutenants Blythe-Waring, Fellowes and Adelphus, the last-mentioned being the target of our inquiry. A week passed, and although Sherlock did not ostensibly do much with regard to the case, I knew that he was up to something. He was receiving regular reports from somebody by telegram each evening, and he seemed generally satisfied with their content. It was exactly a week after the trip to the shop that he surprised me at dinner one evening (no, not that way).

“I think it is time that we went down to Biddleston Hall, and concluded this case”, he said. 

“Where is that?” I asked.

“Lieutenant Anderson's house in the country, in west Norfolk”, he said. I rather think that we may find the mysterious Lieutenant Adelphus there as well.”

“He is not dead, then?” I asked. 

“Not exactly”, he said, to my evident mystification. “But I know who he really is. I can also make a guess as to why there is no record of him on the army pay-roll, although if I am right, the case will require some delicate handling.”

“There is no danger?” I asked warily.

“Lieutenant Anderson may be annoyed at what we have discovered, but I hope that I can make him see that it is all for the best”, he said. “I fear however that it will not be easy. He has acted in what he sees as just cause, and it may be hard to persuade him otherwise.”

+~+~+

I was still working on my writings that evening when Sherlock went to bed, and I muttered that I would not be long, as I was wrestling with a particularly tricky part of my story concerning the 'disappearance' of Lady Frances Carfax. After some effort I had the story the way I wanted it, and put my papers away before going to my room to undress. Then I slipped across to Sherlock's room, slowly pushing the door open. He was laid on the bed, reading, wearing those black-framed square reading-glasses of his.

And nothing else! Six foot one of gloriously naked man, and all mine!

I may have let out a whimper of happiness, judging from the faint quirk to his lips, but he ignored me and carried on with his book. I frowned, and moved to the side of the bed, kneeling down before starting to kiss his ankle, which I knew was one of the spots that turned him on. He shuddered slightly, but did not put his book down.

All right, clearly I would have to up my game here. I moved round to kiss his other ankle, before working my way slowly up his left leg, to where his cock was already at full mast, leaking pre-come. Not wanting to make things easy for him, I switched my attentions to his left hand, gently removing it from his book and kissing each finger before taking it into my mouth, then working my way up his muscled arm. He growled, but continued to read his book, which I could now see was one about bees. No way was I coming second to such a subject!

I replaced his left hand and transferred the book to it before giving his right hand the same treatment, and working my way up his right arm before nuzzling into his neck. I gently bit a love-bite into his glorious neck – not one that would last, unlike the ones he loved to leave on me (and that I loved to have) – then ran my fingers through his hair, making it even more of a mess.

“Love you”, I whispered. I was always a little amazed as to how easy those words came when I was with Sherlock. But then, he had a way of making everything easy. I nibbled my way across his chest, then sucked gently at first one nipple and then the other. He moaned, and his book finally fell away. I grinned in triumph....

…. until he flipped me with his inhuman strength and stared down hungrily at me. I was already hard, but the sight of my lover naked except for those glasses and towering over me was wonderful. He felt around my entrance, and raised an eyebrow when he found the plug.

“You prepared yourself”, he growled. “Good boy!”

I had little time to revel in his praise before he removed the plug and began thrusting in, easing home with practised skill and, bastard that he was, deliberately ignoring my prostate. I writhed on the bed beneath him, but he held me down easily with his hips alone, his arms supporting his weight as he arched his back above me. My muscles felt like jelly, and he must have taken pity on me for he suddenly reached down and pulled my legs up, striking my prostate full-on. I whined in happiness, wishing both that this could last forever and yet that I could come. The latter happened within seconds, and my eruption took Sherlock over the cliff-edge with me, before he tumbled on top of me, smearing my come into both our chests. 

We lay there for some little time before he peeled himself back off of me and wiped us both down. Only then did he slowly pull out and cu... edge himself up against me, holding me tight to him as we both fell asleep, exhausted. I was so damn lucky!

+~+~+

After breakfast - and more sex-with-Sherlock-wearing-glasses - we took a cab to Liverpool Street Station and a Great Eastern Railway train to King’s Lynn. From there it was onto the Midland & Great Northern Railway, and a positively antiquated train over which I had serious doubts. Nevertheless, the elderly locomotive moved a lot faster than it had looked capable of, and it was not long before we were pulling into Biddlesford Halt. Unsurprisingly there was no cab at the little station, but as the Hall could clearly be seen to the south of the nearby village, we decided to walk, perhaps not the wisest decision as it meant when we finally arrived at the place, Sherlock's hair looked like he has walked through a tornado. Twice!

Lieutenant Anderson was at home, and received us graciously enough, inquiring at to the purpose of our visit.

“That is somewhat difficult to explain”, Sherlock said. “It concerns a certain photograph that was taken of you and two of your fellow officers.”

The man’s expression did not change, but I definitely saw him tense. I wondered also at the use of the 'two'.

“What is your interest in that?” he asked cautiously.

“I was wondering if you knew, sir, that you had actually perpetrated a criminal offence?”

The man had clearly not been expecting that. 

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Misrepresentation of a person as a member of the British Army is an offence punishable by time in jail”, Sherlock said gravely. “Not only that, but those aiding and abetting the crime also attract a penalty, especially if they are in the armed forces themselves.”

“What do you want?” the lieutenant ground out.

“I require the real name of 'Lieutenant Adelphus'”, Sherlock said. “It is only fair that I tell you, I know who he really is, or at least, I know his _origins_. And I know why you did what you did that day.” 

The soldier sighed, and sat back heavily.

“I suppose there is no harm in telling you”, he said. “But I warn you, it is hard to believe. Even for me, and I was there!”

He took a deep breath.

“My father, the colonel, married my mother when they were both very young”, he said. “It was a happy marriage, but there were no children, and once he passed forty years of age, he became increasingly anxious to secure the dynasty. There have been Andersons at Biddlesford since the thirteenth century, you see. Finally, when he was forty-three, my mother became pregnant with me. Although I was born nearly two months early and she herself died of complications soon afterwards, I survived.

“My father died four years ago, and I cherish the facts that I made lieutenant shortly before he passed on, and by then had three sons of my own to secure the dynasty. But then I found out that he had left me a most unexpected surprise in his will.”

“What was it?” I asked.

“A half-brother!”

It sounds like a cliché to say that it was only at that moment I became aware just how loud the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner was, yet it was true. I stared at our host in shock. Sherlock, of course, was unruffled.

“Mr. Hector Adelphus”, he said. “' _Eterothalis adelphos_ ' being the Greek for 'half brother'.”

Our host nodded.

“Father had had an affair with an Indian woman some two years after I was born”, he said. “George and Tom – the other men in the picture – they knew, and managed things for him so I would not find out. He had been named Hector – partly because of the half-brother thing and partly because my father loved Ancient Greek tales - and he had had the best education that money could buy. But when Father died, I had to be told.”

“What did you do?” Sherlock asked softly.

“I was lucky”, he said. “My time over there was almost up, and I was allowed to return early to sort out the estate. George and Tom came back with me. Before that though, I sought out Hector and persuaded him to come to England with me.”

“But wait a minute”, I protested. “The soldier that Miss Woodhouse was interested in was white!”

“Miss Woodhouse?” Lieutenant Anderson asked, confused. “Oh, is she the friend of that harridan who descended on me in London that time?”

I did not bother to suppress the smile.

“My client is Miss Elizabeth Woodhouse”, Sherlock explained, “who saw your half-brother in a picture and had somewhat strong feelings as a result. Her most formidable and vocal friend, Miss Holston Beauregard, was the lady who spoke at you. The doctor and I endured the same experience.”

“You have my sympathies”, Lieutenant Anderson said. “I was most alarmed by her forthrightness, and I am afraid that I lied to her about his passing. But this Miss Woodhouse – you must correct her at once.”

“Correct her about what?” I asked.

“Theatrics”, Sherlock said, as if that explained everything. 

“How did you know?” Lieutenant Anderson asked.

“Several things”, Sherlock said, “the most obvious being that the British Army, for reasons of rank stupidity, does not allow the native Indian to ascend to the dizzy heights of the rank of lieutenant. A photographer who does a lot of military work would know that, but Mr. Watkin was presented with what he thought were four white officers, even if one of them looked somewhat foreign. Your half-brother is what is unfairly referred to as 'a half-caste', and applying theatrical face powder completed the illusion of his being white.”

“Your nose!” I blurted out. 

Lieutenant Anderson looked at me in surprise. 

“Pardon?” he said, clearly nonplussed. I blushed fiercely.

“One of the clues was that both you and your half-brother inherited the aquiline nose from a common ancestor”, Sherlock said. “Your grandfather, judging from the portrait in the entrance-hall.”

The man nodded, and leant forward.

“I must urge you to see my position, gentlemen”, he said. “I have had no trouble accepting Hector as my half-brother; indeed, I intend to drag him to the next county ball for his sins, to make it as official as possible. But your Miss Woodhouse has fallen in love with a fantasy, a handsome white soldier with foreign looks. Hector is not dark-skinned, but I am sure that she would be shocked to see what he is really like.”

“I rather think that you underestimate her”, Sherlock said. “But of course, you could always explain things to her friend if you wished? We could even arrange for her to come up here?”

The lieutenant looked terrified at that prospect. I silently thought that he would probably rather return to India and face some of the native tribes there. Come to that, so would I!

“Absolutely not!” he said firmly, himself blanching at the prospect. “If that dratted woman comes anywhere near this place, I am reaching for my shotgun! But if Hector agrees, I shall invite Miss Woodhouse up for the day, and we shall see what we shall see.”

+~+~+

See it we did. Lieutenant Anderson’s fears proved groundless, and Miss Woodhouse made it clear to his half-brother that the latter's skin colour interested her marginally less than the November rainfall figures for Outer Mongolia. They were married at the end of the following year, emigrated to live near her American friend a few months after that, and had their first child in 1906. 

Then they went and named him Beauregard. Poor boy!

Eleven months to go.

+~+~+

In the next case, Sherlock himself demonstrates Phenomenal Psychic Powers!


End file.
